Stained (2 page)

Brian's smile drops. Standing so close to Dad, looking like a model with his dark curly hair, bright blue eyes, and sturdy, dimpled chin, he makes Dad look even worse. Frailer, somehow.

“Hey, should I come back later?” Brian asks, shifting his laptop from one hand to the other.

“No,” Dad says abruptly. “You might as well know. Everyone will soon enough. The company's in financial trouble. If you want to look for another job, I understand. I'll give you good references.”

Brian rubs his throat. “It can't be that bad, can it?”

“We owe more than a hundred thousand that we don't have. Someone stole it,” Dad says abruptly.

“God,” Brian says. “Is there anything I can do?” He looks at Mom, then Dad. “Have you phoned the police?”

“First thing,” Mom says.

“I'm heading there now,” Dad says wearily.

“Well, let me come with you. I'm not going to abandon ship.” Brian puts his hand on Dad's sleeve. “Come on; let's see what we can do.”

Dad nods slowly and allows himself to be drawn away. He walks unsteadily, like he isn't sure where the floor is.

“I'll take good care of him, Ellen,” Brian says over his shoulder. “Don't you worry. He's in good hands.”

Brian takes Dad's coat off the hook and helps him into it, as if Dad is sick or very old—and Dad just lets him, like he's forgotten how to dress himself. I'm grateful to Brian, even as I hate that Dad needs him.

Brian looks over at me then, like he can hear my thoughts. His gaze is so intense, it's like we're the only two people in the room. “Hey, Sarah—keep your chin up.”

I sigh softly and keep my face angled downward, away from him, hiding behind my hair.

Brian guides Dad out with a last, reassuring smile for Mom. The door shuts behind them, the sound loud in the silence. I want to run after Dad, but instead I stand there, breathing shallowly. The house feels empty, like all the life has drained out of it.

Mom shakes herself. “Well. We still have to get on with our day.” She picks a piece of imaginary lint off her suit, then smiles crookedly at me. “I'm sorry about your treatments, hon. I know how much you were depending on them.”

“It's okay.” I force the words, choking on them.

“Why do you hide your face like that?” Mom pushes my hair back from my cheek, tucking it behind my ear. “You should let people see you.”

“Like Mrs. Barton?” I say, shaking my hair back in place.

“That was years ago.”

I don't look at her. “I'm going to be late.”

Mom sighs again, her cloying orange-blossom scent filling the hall. “You're beautiful, Sarah—inside and out. If some people can't see that, that's their loss.”

I've heard her say that so many times, the words are almost meaningless, but I agree so she'll drop it. “Right.”

Mom strokes my hair. “You know the treatment is only temporary. The purple would have come back in a few years—and the treatments would have hurt. That's why we didn't want to put you through it.”

I bite down hard on my lip. A few years of people smiling at me instead of gawking. A few years of fitting in, of easy conversations, of finally being normal. I would trade almost anything for that. And the discoloration might not come back. She doesn't know for sure. But none of it matters now.

Mom rests her hand on my head. “I wish you could see yourself the way we do—”

“I wish you could understand!”

“Maybe I do,” Mom says quietly. “But maybe I want things to get better for you. And I don't think hiding is going to do it.”

I grit my teeth to keep from saying something I'll regret.

“Believe it or not, I was shy and withdrawn when I was your age. It wasn't until I broke out of my shell and started making friends that things got better.”

“I have friends,” I mutter.

“I know you do,” Mom says, but she sounds like she's saying the opposite.

I grab my coat. “I've got to go.”

8:20 A.M.

 

IT'S SO COLD MY breath puffs out like fog in front of me. Gray slush sucks at my shoes. I walk fast, not looking at anyone. If I don't see them staring, they can't hurt me—or that's what I tell myself. I turn the corner onto a busier street, yank the
Seventeen
out of my backpack, and toss it into a garbage can.

A beautiful woman's face looks haughtily down at me from a billboard advertising mascara. I avert my gaze.

Cold wind bites into my cheeks. I automatically rate people as I pass them, from model beautiful (a ten) to blend-in normal (a five) to slightly off-putting (a four), but no one ever gets the rating I give myself—shocking abnormality that is all anyone can see: what is different, what is wrong (a minus five).

I cut across the street and into the school parking lot, weaving past the throngs of students gathered in little groups. I tense against the snickers, the sideways glances, the giggles that embed themselves into my skin like slivers of metal. It doesn't matter how many times I tell myself I should be used to it; it still hurts.

I try to slip into Diamond's persona, the way I imagine her—walking tall, confident, and proud—but I can't do it.

The giggling gets louder. I raise my head and steadily look at each kid who's laughing. One by one they turn away. Mom would tell me to stop showing them how much it bothers me and they'll get tired of “teasing” me. But it's been years, and they haven't tired of it yet.

“Sarah! Hey, Sarah!” Madison calls shrilly.

I tense. I shouldn't respond, not after the degrading picture she posted of me online. I can still see that horrible, doctored photo—pus oozing out of the purple stain on my face, flies crawling over my skin. And in big, bold letters: “Why doesn't she just get plastic surgery?” More than thirty students left nasty comments about my cheek, probably because they were scared she'd turn on them next, but knowing that doesn't make it any easier.

Madison calls again, insistently. I know she'll only get louder if I keep ignoring her. I look at her, careful to keep my bad side turned away.

“Got any makeup tips?” she calls. “Like how to hide facial defects? Or maybe your entire face?” The girls around her titter.

I watch her steadily, not flinching, and she turns away.

Madison is pretty—at least a seven. Pretty enough to grab boys' attention. But only a few years ago she had braces, rampant acne, and was twice her current weight. I don't understand how she can act like this—not when she knows what it's like to be laughed at. But maybe that's the point. She doesn't want people to remember the way they used to treat her; she's one of the Beautiful People now.

I walk past her. Gemma nods at me, her short, nubby black hair exposing her scalp to the cold. I nod back but don't stop to talk, even though she seems nice. The resident lesbian and the girl with the purple face would make for great gossip.

“Hey, Sarah,” Nick says, edging up beside me.

“Nick,” I say resignedly. Nick is almost as much of a social outcast as I am. He has thick glasses; a soft-around-the-edges, plump body; an insatiable interest in comics, computers, and role-playing games, and not enough awareness to not talk about it to anyone who will listen. In other words, a geek. And today he's wearing his puffy silver coat that makes him look like a shiny blimp.

“Thanks for the loan.” Nick pulls a graphic novel out of his backpack.
Daniel X.
I lent it to him last week—at the comic shop. I didn't expect him to give it back to me so publicly.

I can just imagine the post Madison will do about this. I reluctantly take the book from him and stuff it in my bag. “Did you like it?”

Nick nods, his glasses bobbing up and down on his nose. “It was amazing.”

“I thought you'd enjoy it.” There's so much in it we can both relate to. Feeling alone. Being alone. Wishing we had superpowers to change our world.

Nick pulls another graphic novel out of his bag, and a bunch of markers spill out onto the slush. His face reddens as he bends down to pick them up. “Try this one,” he says as he straightens and hands me the novel.

Ghostopolis.
I haven't read it yet, but the cover intrigues me.

Behind me, I hear another burst of giggles. I know it's about me and Nick. Purple stain and doughboy. They don't care that he's kind, smart, and good-natured, and sort of cute in a soft, chubby way, with messy, sandy hair that's always falling into his eyes and a quick smile. All they see is his weight and his social awkwardness, just like they only see my face and how alone I am. I glance back at Madison and see her snapping pictures of us with her cell. I yank my hand back. “Maybe later.”

Nick blinks, his gentle puppy-dog eyes huge behind his glasses. “Okay,” he says fast, and turns away.

I know that move. I've done it so many times myself, trying not to let people see I'm hurt. “Wait!”

Nick turns back to me.

“You show your comics to Mr. Simmons yet?”

“No,” Nick says.

“You should! They're way better than anything anyone around here can do. It would give you some cred, you know? Make those bozos see how talented you are.”

“I don't need them to see that,” Nick says, smiling sadly, like he is so much older than me, or wiser somehow. But he needs to feel accepted just as much as I do.

I know what it's like to care about something so much that you feel like you'll shatter if anyone criticizes it. That's how I feel about my comic-book writing. Nick is the only one who's ever read any of my scripts, and that was by accident. A page fell out of my notebook, and Nick picked it up and read the whole thing before giving it back. I was so scared I hardly heard him tell me how good it was, and how much he liked Diamond. I want to show him more, but I can never quite make myself.

So I guess I should understand. But Nick has more talent than most of the kids at school. Someday he's going to be really well known for his comics, while most of our classmates will work day jobs they hate. “Why not? Maybe they'd leave you alone.”

“You know they wouldn't. They'd still tease me just as much,” Nick says quietly. “Maybe even more. And if you want me to share my art, you have to share your writing.”

I wince.

Nick laughs. “Exactly. Listen—you want to go to the comic store after school, get some hot chocolate on the way?” His eyes are bright with hope. I don't know how he can keep asking when I keep refusing him.

I bite my lip. “I can't; not today. Stuff at home.” Which is true. But I always have an excuse.

Nick looks at me, a funny expression on his face. “You're not like them, you know,” he says, nodding toward the clumps of students snickering at us. “You're better. Someday you'll realize that.”

I stare at him, not knowing what to say.

Nick gives me another sad smile, and I feel like I've let him down somehow. He walks away and doesn't look back.

Charlene's standing by the chainlink fence, waving to me with jerky, exaggerated motions, her breasts and stomach jiggling. I stride over, drop my backpack to the ground, and lean up against the fence beside her, the metal diamonds pressing into my back, even through my coat.

“I thought you weren't coming in until later?” she says.

“Change of plans.”

Charlene waits, but I can't talk about it, not right now.

“Well, I've got something for you.” She presses a flat, tissue-wrapped rectangle into my hand. “It's for after your treatments.”

I tear off the tissue paper. It's a heavy silver rectangle with a Manga girl on the cover saying, “Who's the most beautiful girl in the world? Look inside!” I know, even before I lift the cover, that it is a mirror. I slap the cover back down fast, but not before I get a glimpse of the purple-red stain that distorts my face.

“Thank you,” I say, in a too-bright voice like my mom's. “It's perfect.”

8:29 A.M.

 

I KNOW SARAH DOESN'T
like
-like me, but that doesn't stop me from trying to get her to notice me. To
see
me. Like that will ever happen.

I'm like Clark Kent without the secret hero identity going on. Easily pushed around, easily ignored. But Sarah's my Lois Lane. She's got such guts, facing her tormenters day after day, staring them down, never letting them see they're getting to her.

And she's classy. She doesn't cower from the bullies or rat them out. She just looks at them accusingly, and they turn away. She's so graceful when she does it—and beautiful. God, she's beautiful. Beautiful and smart and kind, when you get to know her, and she loves comics as much as I do. We'd be such an amazing couple on so many levels. She could write the comics; I could do the art. And the rest of the time—well, there would be a lot of kissing involved.

I wish Sarah could see how beautiful she is. And I wish she could see me for who I am. Because I'm right here, loving her. But she never seems to notice.

8:30 A.M.

 

“YOU SURE YOU'RE OKAY?” Charlene asks, frowning. “You look upset.”

“I'm fine,” I snap.

Charlene looks sideways at me. “Ooo-kay.” She pops a stick of gum in her mouth. “Want some?”

I shake my head, though the cinnamon smells good. I don't like to do anything that draws attention to my face when I'm in public if I can help it. And that includes unnecessary chewing.

Charlene stuffs the pack of gum into her backpack, and an empty Cheetos bag and two chocolate-bar wrappers fall out. She pretends not to see them. She must have had a bad night at her dad's.

“
You
okay?” I ask.

“Sure.” Charlene chomps on her gum. “My dad only called me a fat cow again last night.”